


Hold This Heart Steady

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:32:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9964736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: In which a haircut helps Clarke realize that there are a lot of things that she needs to tell Bellamy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> BFF prompt fill: post season 3 haircut.

There aren’t many things that Clarke misses about the Ark. She doesn’t miss the stale, recycled air that leaves her with a sour taste on her tongue; The relentless, enduring hum of the machines lasting through the night; the too-white walls that make her vision blur and her eyes sting after long shifts at the med bay.

The only thing she misses are the bathrooms.

Or, to be more specific, the  _ private  _ bathrooms attached to the apartments.

She yelps when the door slams open, the sound of wood striking metal jarring against the quiet of the room. Instinctively, she fumbles for the towel wrapped around her, hefting it higher.

There’s a beat where Bellamy, eclipsed by a halo of light and bearing an uncanny resemblance to one of the Greek gods that grace the covers of his tattered novels, just sort of  _ stares,  _ before it apparently dawns on him that she’s not exactly decent.

“Sorry,” he says, flushing. His voice is scratchy, and she has to repress the quick shiver that rushes up her spine. “Didn’t think anyone else would be in here at this time of night.”

“It’s a communal shower,” she deadpans, relaxing and flexing her hands by her sides. “I think it’s safe to assume that there’s always going to be someone in here. Even at three in the morning.”

He shrugs at that, the motion pulling his shirt distractingly tight around his shoulders. “I can come back later, if you want. Let you finish up.”

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” she insists, and it only strikes her then how true the words are. “I really don’t mind.”

The corners of his lips quirk up at that; the smallest of smiles. “Only if you’re  _ sure, _ Princess. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your beautification routine.”

She barely manages to suppress her snort, glancing down at the paltry lineup. Half a bar of soap, that doubles as shampoo, followed by a pair of rusty scissors, and a stretched out t-shirt that she dried her hair with. The epitome of luxury, really.

“I hope you brought your own, because I’m not sharing,” she deadpans, turning her face back to the mirror. The fresh bruise on her cheek blooms purple against her skin, and the slash marks by her clavicle are red and inflamed. Frowning, she grabs at the ends of her hair, rubbing a strand between her fingers. Matted and tangled and hanging to her ribs. It’s like looking back at a stranger.

The sudden rush of water snaps her out of her reverie; Bellamy’s fingers working at the spigots. She opens her mouth, question already perched on her lips when he dunks his head underwater, water splashing up and soaking the collar of his shirt when he resurfaces, running his fingers through his hair.

Her mouth feels suddenly and  _ stupidly _ dry. Licking her lips, she stutters out, “What are you doing?”

He arches a brow over at her, clearly oblivious to the effect he has, before jerking his chin over at the blade resting by the sink in answer. “Beautifying. I know you think all of _this_ _—_ ” He makes a vague gesture towards his face, smirking, “ _—_ is all natural and God given, but I do have to work to maintain it, you know.”

“I can assure you that I didn’t think that,” she says, watching as he picks up the blade and begins shaving, working at the slight stubble lining his jaw, “But hey, whatever helps you sleep at night, right?”

“That, accompanied by the crippling knowledge that the earth is ending in six months,” Bellamy says tightly, shooting her a sardonic half smile. “But maybe that’s just me.”

Her stomach twists painfully at that, and she finds herself averting her gaze, mind casting around for a safe topic. Not now. Not  _ yet.  _ Maybe tomorrow, when she could stop tasting blood in her mouth and finding dirt under her fingernails.

He seems to get that, if the softening of his gaze is anything to go by. “So,” he starts, tilting his chin over to the assortment of items laid out on her sink, “What are the scissors for?”

“Oh.” She frowns, picking them up carefully. They make a squeaking noise when she holds them to her hair, sliding them in between the tangled locks. “I think I’m due for a trim.”

“Sure, but _ — _ ”

A strangled noise leaves his throat when the scissors bite down on her hair, strands of gold fluttering to the ground. It’s a little uneven, kind of choppy, but she doesn’t  _ hate  _ it. Carefully, Clarke grabs at another chunk, sliding the scissors in place _ — _

“Stop!” he huffs out, slamming his blade back down on the sink. She’d be a little amused by his half-shaven state if he didn’t look so mad about it. “You’re _butchering_ it.”

Her cheeks involuntarily flushed at that. “Well, not all of us have the time or luxury to be  _ vain,  _ Bellamy. Maybe some of us _ — _ ”

She startles into silence when he reaches over, fingers grazing the ends of the newly trimmed lock of hair. The look in his eyes is critical, but the touch is soft. Careful. “I can cut it for you.”

“What?”

“It’s not a big deal,” he continues, with a irritable jerk of his head. “I used to do it for _ — _ ” he trails off, throat bobbing with the effort of just _ attempting _ to get the words before he settles for a abrupt,“ _ —  _ it’s just _ —  _ look, it’s really not difficult.” 

She pretends to consider it, pulse thrumming loudly in her ears. Then, with faux nonchalance, “If you’re sure.”

His relief is palpable when she hands the scissors over, sliding behind her and fluffing out her hair. “Alright, Princess. Where do you want it?”

“You pick,” she shrugs, biting back a whimper when his hands begin to lift at her roots, nails grazing at her scalp. “I really don’t care.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She makes a face in the mirror. “It’s just  _ hair.  _ Just cut it straight across.”

“ _ Cut it straight across, _ ” he mimicks, grumbling under his breath as he lines the scissors up along her hair,  fingers ghosting along her neck and making her squirm. “Cute. It’s like you  _ want  _ to have bad hair.”

“Not in particular, no,” she admits, lids fluttering shut automatically at the pinch of the scissors gliding through her hair, “But I feel safe in the knowledge that I’m in your trustworthy hands.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” he grumbles, sounding positively mulish, the faint hint of sharpness in his voice snapping her back into alertness. She’s not sure if Bellamy’s just  _ obvious  _ or if it’s because she’s been around him long enough to be able to pick up on the subtle changes of his mood, keenly attuned to the slightest of movements, the varying dips of his voice and what they mean.

_ Or maybe they’ve just become well-versed in one another _ , she can’t help but think,  _ with everything that has happened _ .

After all, you didn’t trust someone with your life if you didn’t turn over all of their pieces first.

She catches his wrist when she feels his fingertips brush up against her collarbone, twisting herself around carefully so she’s facing him. Reaching over, she extricates the scissors from his grip, letting them clatter back into the sink. “I’m not joking. You know that, right? It’s important that you know.”

His gaze is flat when he looks over at her. Then, with a faint smile touching at his lips, he says, “Know what, now?”

Clarke can’t quite help her frustrated growl at that. “That I  _ trust  _ you. More than anything.”

She stops him from looking away with a thumb pressed against his chin, the movement anticipatory more than anything. He blinks, and she feels the shaky rumble of his chest against hers when he exhales.

“More than  _ anything _ ,” she reiterates, letting her hand fall back to her side. She’s not giving him something else to run away from, something else to drown in favor of his guilt and shame and self-loathing. “Okay, Bellamy?  _ You,  _ more than anything.”

His eyes gleam in the half-darkness of the room, close enough that she can feel his breath fanning across her cheek. In that moment, cloaked by the quiet and Bellamy’s warmth, she thinks about doing something selfish. She leans forward just a hair, acting on a impulse long-buried.

But the world is ending, and she never quite learned how to stay balanced without the weight of it on her shoulders, so she takes a step back instead with short, shallow breaths as the moment dissipates.

“So, there’s your hair,” he teases effortlessly, the moment between them settling into something easy and friendly and  _ good.  _ Familiar. It fills her with dizzying relief and disappointment all at once. “And since I’m saving your life constantly, I assume you trust me to snag you the best bowl of oatmeal every morning too, so _ — _ ” He shrugs playfully. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” she replies, swallowing. She turns her face away before handing him the scissors again.  _ Everything, Bellamy.  _ His touch burns a trail against her skin when he gathers the rest of her hair off her neck, grasping it securely in his fingers.  _ Everything, everything, everything.  _ “It’s a long list.”


End file.
